


remember me when i die (for you)

by Larissa



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Ambiguous Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, F/M, Gen, Handwaved Timeline, Hero Worship, M/M, Memories, Other, Pining, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Sacrifice, Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23270944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larissa/pseuds/Larissa
Summary: You are not G'raha Tia.You are the Crystal Exarch, and you will save the Warrior of Light at any cost.———Character study of the Crystal Exarch throughShadowbringers. Follow-up toforget-me-(not).
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch & Warrior of Light, G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 28
Kudos: 182
Collections: Final Fantasy XIV - Crystal Exarch x WoL Recommendations





	remember me when i die (for you)

**Author's Note:**

> I use they/them pronouns for the Warrior of Light in this fic; you are welcome to substitute it as you wish.
> 
> While this fic is a follow-up to [forget-me-(not)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22639183), it is not necessary to read that fic first.
> 
> Unbeta'd. I handwaved a lot of the timeline and I probably got some canon details wrong.

You had thought the Warrior of Light would be the one to wake you.

You’d known full well that it was a foolish dream at best. That even the mighty Warrior of Light, storied hero of Eorzea, could not overcome millennia of Allag technology in the span of a single lifetime. When you woke, they would be long dead, and you would be surrounded by strangers.

You’d still thought it anyway. After all, the Warrior of Light had accomplished things none thought were possible. This certainly wouldn’t be any different. And the way they’d looked at you as the door closed—

You were wrong, of course.

You were wrong about all of it.

———

You spend the first few months in a daze. You do what’s asked of you, offering little in the way of dissent. This world has no place for the frivolous errands of your youth.

You ask questions, in what few moments of serenity you find. You probe, looking for meaning. For reason. For _something_ to justify the madness that surrounds you.

You find nothing.

———

The Warrior of Light is dead.

You have to accept that, or you can’t accept anything else. The Warrior of Light is dead. _Has_ been dead for two hundred years. The Warrior of Light is dead, and you slept through it all.

You know, instinctively, that you would not have survived. Had you been awake, had the Tower been open, you would have suffered the same fate, and the power of the ancients would have torn the world asunder. You made the right decision.

You find no comfort in it.

———

The plan is insane.

They didn’t tell you at first. Something about not getting your hopes up. The notion makes you laugh, louder than any of them have heard you. _Hope?_ How can there be _any_ hope in this wretched, dying world?

That’s when they tell you the rest.

It’s insane. It’s insane and unbelievable and _impossible_. It’ll never work.

You don’t even let them finish explaining. You’re in.

———

At first you do your best not to get attached to anyone. If by some miracle this actually works, these people will cease to exist. It’s foolish to set yourself up for that kind of pain.

In this, as in so much else, you fail utterly. You come to know Biggs like a brother. His wife, an Elezen with a truly delightful sense of humor, treats you like a son. They lost their own, you come to learn, and you cannot bring yourself to deny them companionship.

But it’s not just them. It’s each and every one of their band of misfits. The gruff Roegadyn cook who teaches you how to make the best of the ingredients you have (and who always wants to know about the food you used to eat). The lithe Au Ra lancer who saves your life nearly every time you venture out into the world. The stately Hyur machinist who knows almost as much about Allag as you. The tiny Miqo’te warrior who spends as much time beheading people as she does gossiping about everyone she’s ever met. The wise Amalj’aa mage who teaches you the very basics of spellwork that you might still defend yourself when bereft of arrows.

You had cared for everyone in NOAH, the Warrior of Light most of all, but this— this is something you’d never experienced. They don’t shy away from your strange eyes. They don’t leave you behind when it’s time to fight. They treat you like one of their own: a fellow survivor rescued from the rubble with nowhere else to go. 

You’re _one_ of them.

———

Except you aren’t.

You, and you alone, can control the Crystal Tower. Nothing can change that. Biggs had rigged up a very clever workaround to get the doors open, but you cannot impart your blood unto any of them.

(You wouldn’t even if you could.)

And because they need the Crystal Tower for their insane plan to work, they need you: alive, hale, whole. You accompany them into dangerous surrounds by dint of necessity, but you are always keenly aware that they never let you wander off on your own. You are a prisoner in all but name. That you are complicit in it does not change that fact.

In some strange way, it helps. Though you have come to care for these people, you will always be a means to an end. That their chosen end is one that erases their existence matters little. Your being has been reduced to a key for an invisible door — and they are naught but the hand upon it.

You’ve always wanted to be useful. To be important. What could be better than saving the world twice over?

———

On paper, it’s simple.

The Scions’ history is well preserved. The First was given over to Light, and its heroes crossed the rift in a misguided effort to save it. Your task is to journey there, to some point in temporal alignment with the Eighth Umbral Calamity, and summon the Warrior of Light. In one stroke, you will save their life and offer the First a chance for salvation — and in so doing keep the Calamity from ever coming to pass.

Such a crossing would be impossible, were you not steward of the Crystal Tower. You can summon its boundless energy. You can make their wishes come true. You can save the world. You can achieve your most fervent wish: to be the light of hope for those who need it most.

You could, if you didn’t land a century early.

———

You despair.

You cannot help it. You had thought— well, you’d thought you would finally do something _right_. Something important and meaningful and necessary. You’d thought (and you can admit this to yourself, in your anguish) that you could be like the Warrior of Light. A savior.

You’re nothing but a screw-up. Like always.

———

You consider going back to sleep.

The Tower still holds countless mysteries, but in this you’re confident. You have no doubt that you could return to your slumber and wake in time to summon the Warrior of Light. You’ve screwed up, yes, but you are the Tower’s keeper. It will protect you as it did before. You can sleep and wake when you’re needed.

You could, if it wasn’t for the crowd outside your front door.

———

You knew that the Crystal Tower would make for a spectacle, but you find yourself astonished by the sizable congregation at its base. Every race you know is accounted for, alongside those wholly unfamiliar.

You have no doubt in the Tower’s defenses. They will never be able to bypass the gates, not even in a century. You are safe.

But they are not.

You see the abominations before they do. Beings of pure, scintillant white marred only by jagged claws and bloodstained maws. You had seen your share of horrors on the Source, but these beings are so _alien_ that you can do little but watch in muted horror.

You know, then. You know that you cannot sleep through their suffering. You know that you have to protect them. You are not the Warrior of Light: you cannot put each and every one of these creatures to the sword.

But you are the keeper of the Crystal Tower. And you have options.

———

That the Tower does not kill you in the process is mostly dumb luck.

You had read about this, a lifetime and a world ago. Allagan blood allows you to control the Tower, but it is still limited. If you are to survive these hundred years without the safety of slumber, you need to go beyond borrowed blood.

If you can’t sleep, then the Crystal Tower must keep you alive another way.

It should be difficult. You are no trained mage, save for your cursory knowledge of rudimentary spellwork and that which you learned to traverse the rift. This is an endeavor that should take years to accomplish.

It’s done before you can think about the consequences.

———

The people are frightened by you.

You are not surprised, though it saddens you all the same. You’ve wrapped yourself in a hooded cloak you found amidst the possessions of the Tower’s previous occupants, but it doesn’t wholly disguise your transfiguration.

You offer little explanation, and they fill in the blanks on their own. They regard you as a mage of immeasurable power who has summoned this crystal spire, and you do not dissuade them.

Fear can be used for more than oppression.

———

You offer them no name, and they do not ask.

You need no name. You are not G’raha Tia here. You are the keeper of the Crystal Tower and all it entails. You are a vessel filled to the brim with the desperate hopes of a doomed timeline. You are nothing but a tool to be used by those few you deem fit.

It surprises you, then, when your newfound wards name you king.

It is a flattery you do not need and do not want. You have no desire to rule. To aid, yes. To guide, as the situation warrants. To provide what succor you are able.

But you are no king. You may bear their blood, but the Allagan monarchy will not be resurrected through you.

You’re not sure who names you Exarch, but you’re surprised how easily it sticks. It’s an old term, you learn, used by the Voeburts to designate the leaders of their many provinces.

You realize it means they’ve accepted you as _their_ leader.

You’re not sure how that feels.

———

There aren’t that many people, in the beginning. It’s been scant few years since Light washed over the realm, and you’re strangely pleased to find that the survivors are much like those you’d left behind. They’re honest, hardworking people who have grown accustomed to their new reality, much as it pains them.

You cannot push back the Light, but you can offer them a sanctuary. The Crystarium springs up almost of its own accord as more and more survivors flock to its base.

It isn’t much to look at, in those days. Some few structures already exist, but for the most part it’s a tent city without rhyme or reason. In a strange way, it reminds you of Saint Coinach’s Find. Not the Find as it was when you left it the second time, but the way it was in the beginning. When you were nothing more than a historian full of excitement and anticipation, eager to learn the mystery of your eye.

The people here are hardly different. They look at the Crystal Tower with such hope you can hardly bear it. Every last one of them sees naught but the promise of a better life. Of a future without suffering.

And you know, beyond the slightest doubt, that you were right to stay awake.

———

You come to know each and every person by name.

There’s Joanna, who escaped Nabaath Areng the day it fell and now leads your rudimentary guard force. There’s Zafi-Suneh, who was vacationing in Lakeland from Kholusia and doesn’t know if her family’s still alive. There’s Swynfryd, who used to be a Voeburtite chirugeon and now tends to the wounded. There’s Njal, who staffs the closest thing the Crystarium has to a tavern.

It isn’t long before you realize that you’re going to have to watch them all die.

Not now. Not immediately, save those who fall to the sin eaters. But in time— in time, they will age and pass away, and you will not.

You can do little but resign yourself to it. You know full well you will get attached. You keep a certain distance with everyone, but you cannot hide your affection for these people — _your_ people. For they have chosen you as their leader, and you know you will give all that you are to protect them.

———

The years pass.

It had seemed so long, at the beginning. A century is not a small thing. Yet you blink and a decade has gone by. Then two. Then more.

You’ve made mistakes. You’ve done things you shouldn’t. You’ve failed more often than you’ve succeeded.

Yet the Crystarium holds. It is a true city, now, borne from the Tower itself, and you are confident in your defenses. You have weathered more sin eater attacks than you can count, and yet the Crystarium still stands.

———

The Lightwardens are the key.

You realize it early on. None can slay a Lightwarden without becoming one themselves. That one requires the blessing of Light to survive it is less a theory and more unproven fact. You know that the only chance this world has is the Warrior of Light.

And yet...

You’ve seen the way people are swallowed up by the Light. How they fade until they’re little but an empty shell. You believe in the Warrior of Light, and yet...

You cannot risk it. They _cannot_ become corrupted. They _must_ return to the Source. Saving this shard will forestall the Eighth Umbral Calamity, but you have little doubt that it is but one of the Ascians’ many schemes. Hydaelyn needs her hero.

You spend years mulling it over. How can you ensure that no matter how much Light they take in, the Warrior of Light will survive? How can you send them home hale and whole? How can you save them?

Are you even strong enough?

———

When the answer comes to you, it’s almost welcome.

Decades as the Crystal Exarch has made it more than status: you _are_ as the people perceive you. G’raha Tia is little but a half-forgotten memory, a dream of a world you strain to recall. You are the mysterious keeper of the Crystal Tower, and you do not want for more.

Yet it is impossible for you to forget your purpose. You have come to cherish the people under your care, but you did not come here for them. You made a vow to those you left behind, and you will not see it unfulfilled.

You will save the Warrior of Light. You will ensure they do not fall to the Light.

It’s the least you can do for them.

———

You wouldn’t be here without the Warrior of Light.

There’s the obvious, of course — you never would have made it through the World of Darkness on your own, to say nothing of the Crystal Tower itself. But it’s far more than that. In those dark, empty days of the Eighth Umbral Calamity, the Warrior of Light had been the flame by which you warmed yourself. Your companions did not lack for stories, and you had drunk of them like a dying man.

You hadn’t been alone in that. _Everyone_ was inspired by the tales of Eorzea’s greatest hero. It had surprised you, in the beginning, just _how_ deeply the stories affected your companions. To you, the Warrior of Light had been a friend, a companion, a _person_. It was difficult to think of them as nothing beyond a brave hero.

But that was what your companions had needed. In their bitter, broken world, _heroism_ was little more than a bygone vanity. You looked out for you and yours, and you stayed alive. You couldn’t afford to protect someone else. The weak wouldn’t survive anyway.

Yet for all the practicalities of their lives, they had yearned for that vanity. Though none would ever admit it, they all wished that the Warrior of Light would appear before them once more. To take on all the burdens of the world, that they might find some measure of peace.

It hadn’t been easy for you to shift your thinking towards theirs. To you the Warrior of Light wasn’t some impossible, unreachable ideal. They were powerful, yes, they were capable of impossible deeds, but they were nothing like the gods they slew. They had fears and doubts and unspoken worries. They were burdened by their purpose, and tried hard not to show it. They hid their pain behind smiles, and when they couldn’t manage that, they nodded and went about their work anyway.

It didn’t matter. Hydaelyn needed the Warrior of Light, not the person beneath.

So you’ll just have to save both.

———

Lyna is an unexpected wrinkle.

In some ways, it was inevitable. You cannot grow close to your people without them responding in kind. You cannot venture far from the Tower, but you refuse to send them into the wilds without protection. The guard can largely take care of itself, by now, but you accompany them as often as you are able. You have not been granted all this power to idle away your time.

You simply didn’t expect... well, _this_.

Lyna is not the first child you’ve saved, but she soon becomes the most attached. She refuses to part from you, and you are surprised to find yourself equally unwilling.

She is alone, and so are you. Is it such a mistake to offer her the affection she needs?

———

You expect raising Lyna to be difficult — and it is, of course, but not in the ways you thought.

You do not technically need to eat or sleep, and therefore have little in the Tower for either purpose. But Lyna needs both, and you do not wish to have her witness your inhumanity. So you cook: simple meals at first, borne from whatever the Mean has to spare, until of course Nagaya finds out about it and starts sending a weekly shipment of fresh meat and vegetables to the Tower. 

You do not allow Lyna to sleep within the Tower itself — overcaution, perhaps, but you cannot risk it. Instead you set up a room for her nearby, and escort her there each night. As she grows older and more independent these walks become your favorite time of the day, for you can focus on nothing but her. You need not think about the future. You need not think about your duty. You need only concern yourself with the smile of a child you have come to love.

———

You expected the Ascian much sooner.

He stares up at the Crystal Tower with open surprise, despite the hood and the mask. You are not sure _which_ Ascian it is, but it doesn’t particularly matter. They have been factored into the plan, and you are not concerned. They can only meddle so much.

He does not approach. Not at first. You can sense him moving through the Crystarium, his pitch-black aether a blight against the Tower’s quiet blue. Everywhere he goes, the Tower watches like a silent sentinel. In time you see him assume a (borrowed) human form, and he does not shield his astonishment at all before him.

The Crystarium, you expect, did not factor into _his_ plans.

In time he comes to you, and in time you receive him. He asks your name, and receives none. You ask his and are given nothing in return beyond a hooded stare. You wonder, absently, if this is what people feel like when they talk to you.

You smile. You inquire whether he would prefer a guided tour this time.

He accepts.

———

You’ve been rereading _Heavensward_ of late.

You’ve read it so many times that by now you’ve memorized the pages themselves as much as the text that lies upon them. _Here_ Lord Edmont’s precise hand is little more than a scribble, as if he could not record the day’s happenings with enough haste. _Here_ each word is rendered with such care you can nearly feel the weight of the deeds they describe. And _here—_ here lies the unmistakable pattern of tears as Lord Edmont chronicles his son’s death.

(You don’t even know how Edmont himself died.)

Still, for all your many tomes on the Warrior of Light, this remains one of your favorites. Countless histories had been written about the realm’s greatest hero, but few writers had known them personally. _Heavensward_ is a welcome glimpse into the life your dear friend lived after your shared adventures.

And yet—

And yet, even _Heavensward_ feels impersonal. So do the Scions’ varied histories, carefully catalogued by the Ironworks descendants. There are no surviving texts penned by the Warrior of Light, and you mourn their absence as much for their contents as the insight they might have granted you.

It doesn’t matter how much faith you have in your plan if the Warrior of Light refuses to aid you.

———

You had never quite been able to read the Warrior of Light.

You had tried, of course, but the Warrior of Light was an enigma even at the best of times. Oh, they were entirely affable, always willing to go along with whatever mad scheme Cid cooked up, but you had never been able to tell how much of it was genuine. There was a distance to the Warrior of Light, and you had not been bold enough to bridge it.

Perhaps it would be easier if you planned to reveal your identity — but you cannot risk that. The Warrior of Light is altruistic enough to aid all those who need it. You will not need the benefit of their friendship.

(No matter how much you want it.)

———

In your weakest moments, you want.

You never intended to become the Crystal Exarch, but the guise has done far more than shield your identity. The Exarch is ageless, nameless, a mysterious figure from a distant land, a generous benefactor to all in need, a powerful guardian for all those under his care. The Exarch is more ideal than man, and when you allow yourself to admit it, you’re good at it.

G’raha Tia is not.

In those moments, when you allow the man-that-was to subsume the man-that-is — in those moments, you know you were right to let him go. G’raha Tia, in all the blind foolishness of youth, still allows himself to dream. To imagine a future in which even he might find happiness. A future with the—

You are not G’raha Tia.

You are the Crystal Exarch. You are the man you always dreamed of becoming. You are a beacon of hope in a world that needs nothing more.

You cannot be allowed to want.

———

(You still do, of course.)

———

Eulmore is a problem.

It wasn’t, at first. You’d disagreed with them on a number of issues, but all your differences fell away before the overwhelming might have the sin eaters. Eulmore boldly leads the charge, and you supplement their advances with what few refugees-turned-soldiers you can spare.

Yet you recognized early on that the situation was untenable. There is only so long one can fight the same war. You had seen it on the Source, in the empty lives of half-dead survivors clinging to life out of habit alone. There, as here, the Calamity had sapped the very will to live.

You knew this, and prepared for it as best you could. You rotate the guard at regular intervals, ensuring that every last soldier knows there is at least a temporary reprieve before them. You ensure that everyone in the Crystarium has a job to do, one that benefits the whole. You take a personal interest in those most affected, offering an ear, a shoulder, a warm smile.

Eulmore, to your knowledge, does none of these things. And Eulmore succumbs to Vauthry.

You meet him just once, and are hard-pressed to contain your dislike. It is as if he exists solely to spoil your plans, and in later years you wonder just that. The Ascian no longer shows himself before you, but you are ever aware of his gaze.

You do not dwell overmuch on it. Vauthry or no, Ascian or no, the Warrior of Light will triumph.

They must.

———

By the time you realize the summoning has failed, it’s too late to reverse it.

Thancred Waters appears in the Ocular utterly bereft of any clothing, much less any concept of what’s happened to him. You, in turn, are so astonished by your failure that you can do little but stare. This was most certainly _not_ in the plan, and you have no idea if you’ve just doomed two worlds in a single stroke.

When Thancred does recover, however, you recognize the opportunity before you. It takes no more than a mention of Minfilia for the Scion to rush to her aid, and you allow yourself to feel reassured by her successful rescue. The Minfilias of this world have always been a question with no answer, the one mystery the Source’s future could not unravel. Perhaps, indeed, this was supposed to happen.

Then you fail again, and you realize that you’re still just a screw-up.

———

Trusting Urianger is a gamble at best, but a necessary one.

If, as Urianger suspects, your failure to summon the Warrior of Light is latching onto their closest friends, then your plan has little chance of success. Like it or not, you _need_ an accomplice. You consider Thancred and Y’shtola both, but you are not totally certain that they can maintain the lie when it matters most.

Urianger, on the other hand, has a record of doing just that.

He does not take it well, exactly, but he does as you expect: he agrees. He sees the wisdom of the plan, and does not argue overmuch. In fact, he has only one lingering question for you.

_Art thou certain of thy chosen path? Art thou truly willing to forfeit thine life for that of our Warrior of Light?_

You smile.

———

In what scant moments you sleep, you dream of dying.

It should be unsettling, and on some level you suppose it is, but these dreams are never nightmares. You do not fear your own death. You never have. Once it was the foolish immortality of youth, but now— now you welcome it.

Never mind the selflessness. Never mind the inherent heroism of your plan. You have had your fill of titles. When you die, it will be for those you left behind, those who entrusted their hope to you. When you die, it will be for those you have come to care for, those you have shepherded through a century of anguish. 

When you die, it will be for the one you love. The one you must, _must_ save. The one whose life is worth far more than yours.

How could you possibly doubt?

———

You are relieved when Y’shtola leaves.

She has never fully accepted Urianger’s lie. You both know it, but there is little Urianger can do but keep up the ruse, and almost nothing you can do to bolster it. Again and again Y’shtola bombards you with questions you cannot answer, and again and again you offer her little more than half-truths and enigmatic smiles.

You regret the deception, but you will not stray from your chosen path. Perhaps she sees that in you, in those strange eyes of hers — or perhaps she’s simply tired of your lies. All that matters is that with her gone, you can breathe easier, and turn your full attention back to the problem at hand: summoning the Warrior of Light.

———

The tricky thing is the timing.

While in theory you could summon the Warrior of Light this very moment (or, well, _attempt_ ), you have no intention of doing so.

The majority of the spell is powered by the Tower: you are little but a conduit. But you cannot make the connection unless there is something there to receive it on the other end, and most of the time the Source is out of sync with the First.

Your own failings aside, you are reasonably certain that this is the reason you keep failing. It is one thing to draw a soul across the rift. It is another thing entirely to summon a _person_ , hale and whole. The summoning itself is not a brief thing: it consumes much of the Tower’s stored aether and involves hours of focus on your part to ensure it goes through.

Which is all moot if the Source slips out of temporal sync, as it has every time you’ve tried.

So you’re back to calculations. You’re almost relieved you were able to summon Urianger, because you’re not sure how you would have managed it without him.

Aside from the Tycoon, that is.

———

You wonder, sometimes, if the Tycoon sent you so far back on purpose.

You cannot deny that you have made measurable progress in this world. The Crystarium alone is far more than you ever hoped to achieve, and its people likewise fill you with so much pride you can hardly contain it. You have done good here, _real_ good, and nothing can ever change that.

Even if your plan fails, even if everything falls apart — you _helped_ these people. _You_. You ensured that they were not swallowed whole by the Light. You gave them a home, a purpose, a reason to keep fighting. No amount of self-deprecation can mask your achievements.

You wonder what the Warrior of Light would think of you now.

———

You have a pretty good idea that the Warrior of Light isn’t happy with you.

This comes by way of Alisaie, preceded shortly by her brother. She throws accusations at you like knives, desperate to make sense of her new surrounds and falling short.

You bear her fury without protest. In many ways, it is the wake-up call you have long needed. You cannot rip the Scions away from their dearest friend and expect to be received with understanding.

And though the twins know the Warrior of Light better than anyone, you force yourself not to ask after them.

———

You do not remember the Warrior of Light.

Not really. Not completely. You do not lack for _history_ of their deeds, but memory is far harder to keep safe. You fear that you would not even remember their face had it not been faithfully reproduced in countless texts. You _know_ you do not remember their voice.

Perhaps it’s for the best. You will never know the Warrior of Light as you once did, and all accounts point to their having undergone significant change since you knew them. They were a green hero, then, but now? Now they have faced down countless primals, brought peace to war-torn lands the world over, and somehow still found time for their many hobbies. 

(You do not remember their smell, but you imagine it every time you put on the sweater they made for you, that day you complained the tent was too cold—)

You do not remember the Warrior of Light.

You are not G’raha Tia.

———

But you wish you were.

Your crystalline fingers tighten around your staff as you behold the one you love for the first time in a century. You want nothing but to rush to their side, to protect them as you’ve always longed—

And they look at you like you’re just another villain for them to strike down.

No. You are not G’raha Tia.

You are the Crystal Exarch, and you can only pray the Warrior of Light does as you beg.

———

The beacon was one of the Ironworks’ earliest attempts to change the past. You were not present for that first test, but you had helped to make it: the first piece of the Tower you allowed to leave. It’s nothing special, just a disc embedded with a small piece of iridescent blue crystal, but it will have to be enough.

You pace around the Ocular for weeks. You cannot see across the rift, but you can sense the shift of time from one plane to the next. _Measuring_ it is more difficult, but it’s becoming more stable. You can feel it.

And then, at last, you feel _them_.

One touch is all it takes. You grasp hold of their aether and _yank_ , channeling every last iota of energy the Crystal Tower has stored this past century.

_Let expanse contract, let eon become instant..._

You open your eyes, and the Ocular is still empty.

———

For once, you despair for no more than a few moments. You can _feel_ them as soon as they near the borders of the Crystarium, their aether such a warm, familiar hue you feel like you might burst. It’s them, it’s _them_ , they’re _here—_

And they do not recognize you.

———

“Just like that? Then... G’raha Tia is...”

You have prepared for this for a century.

You know your lines. You open your mouth to say them.

This is it. Do this, and you can go to your grave without worry. The Warrior of Light will never know how much you’ve done in their name. You will be nothing more than a villain like all the rest they’ve faced. You will succeed.

So why are you hesitating?

You are not G’raha Tia.

You are not G’raha Tia.

You are not G’raha Tia, and the Warrior of Light is staring at you.  
_  
An extraordinary tale_ , you hear yourself murmur. _But I'm afraid I found no such individual residing in the tower when it passed into my care._

That the Warrior of Light asks nothing further is a mercy you do not deserve.

———

They succeed.

Of course they do. A century of fruitless struggle against the Lightwardens, and the Warrior of Light slays the first in a matter of days. You would be annoyed if you weren’t utterly relieved.

But this, too, is something you anticipated. You bow your head before the Warrior of Light and beg their forgiveness in the same breath you beseech their aid, but even that is hardly necessary. They will do as you ask.

A hero does not resist the call, after all.

Yet as you raise your head, you cannot read the Warrior of Light’s gaze. There’s something there, something—

You’re imagining things.

———

The Ascian is back.

You’re not sure when you last saw him. A few years, maybe. As before, you sense him long before he shows himself. As before, he pretends not to notice.

He asks after the Warrior of Light. Obligingly, like a distant relative who cares not for the answer but must feign politeness all the same. You can hear the real question beneath.

_How did you bring them here?_

Your smile is practiced, your answer even more so.

_How, indeed? I should like to find out myself._

———

You probably should have expected that the Warrior of Light would return with the Ascian in tow.

Yet you did not, and you are, however briefly, genuinely thrown by it. The Ascian — _all_ Ascians prefer to watch from the shadows. They do not step into the light where they might be beheld by all and sundry.

Emet-Selch, you realize, is different.

You don’t like it. You like your Ascians where you can (not) see them — a force to be expected, planned around, not actively _engaging_.

You suspect that’s why he’s doing it.

———

Lyna is worried about you.

She always is, in some way or another, but she has learned to mask it. That she is not bothering to do so is enough to tell you that you cannot dissuade her.

Yet when she finally comes to you, it is with hesitation, not concern. She knows well the boundaries between you; she helped build them herself. She has always known better than to ask after your secrets.

You reassure her, as you always have. You’re fine, everything’s fine. Yes, things are strange, but she need not fear. The Warrior of Darkness has come. Do all you must to aid them, for they will be the one to deliver us all.

 _You will need them_ , you consider telling her, _when I’m gone_.

You don’t say it.

(But you wish you could.)

———

Alphinaud accompanies you to Eulmore.

He, too, is filled to the brim with questions, though he has the manners not to ask. You indulge him in a few unimportant tidbits — when the Crystarium was founded, what it was like back then, things of that sort. You do not realize what he’s doing until it’s far too late.

_So you were there, then? A century past? I must say, Exarch, you look well for your years. I wonder, how is it you have lived so long? You do not much resemble a Viera._

You make some poor joke about having very small ears, but you have learned your lesson. You cannot let your guard down.

Not with anyone.

———

Upon your return to Lakeland, you cannot help but gaze up at the night sky in wonder.

For all that you’ve been planning this for a century, you never gave much thought to what it would feel like.

Well— no, that’s not true. You spent an unreasonable amount of time imagining what the Warrior of Light would say and do, and how you would behave if this or that happened. It’s the little things like this that slipped your notice.

“Little.” As if the return of the night is anything short of glorious. As if you didn’t question whether you forgot what it was like to behold the sunless sea. Now that the boundless ocean of stars is hung in the heavens before you, you know that memory did not come close.

As it hadn’t with the Warrior of Light.

———

You’re not sure when you fell in love with the Warrior of Light.

Maybe it was that first smile they gave you, a half-smothered laugh as you boldly declared the name for your group for the sake of posterity. Maybe it was when they emerged from the Labyrinth of the Ancients, exhausted and breathless and yet still marveling at the splendor before them. Maybe it was the arch of their back as they protected you in the World of Darkness, keeping you from harm while trusting you to hold your own.

Maybe it was when you left them.

Or maybe it’s now, here, as you come to know them anew. Maybe it’s the curious looks they give you, like they’re trying to peer under your hood without being too obvious. Maybe it’s their constant willingness to help _anyone_ who crosses their path. Maybe it’s simply the way they glow, like a light shining behind every smile, every sideways glance.

Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe you’ve always been in love with the Warrior of Light. Maybe you just imagine you are.

It’s not as if they’ll ever know.

———

At least, that’s the plan.

You know better. You know you know better. But you _must_ be here, at the end, and you are not so invalid as to sit idly by. You can aid the Warrior of Light in a simple task.

You should have known you’d never be able to bear it.

You’re fighting at the Warrior of Light’s side. _You_. The one who was left behind to wait and watch and hope. You knew you were capable enough to accompany them through Holminster Switch, but that was a land you knew well. Here, in the wilds of Kholusia, you find it was no fluke.

_Phew... I don't know much about fighting, but you two make a great team!_

Perhaps you do.

———

Maybe you’re simply overcome by sentimentality.

That happens at the end of one’s life. You’ve seen it firsthand time and again in the Crystarium, as those you had watched over succumbed. Each and every one of them had yearned for the things of their youth, of their past, of lovers long gone. Of things they no longer had, and knew they never would again.

So it is with you. You tell the Warrior of Light — no, you tell the one you love of your most fervent wish to be by their side. You make all sorts of grand declarations, and you even let yourself believe you’re being ambiguous. That you’ve given them enough reason to doubt.

(You should have known they already knew.)

———

_At journey’s end, an opportunistic thief makes off with the hero’s prize. A paltry way to end a chapter, I concede._

This is to be the performance of your life. You figured out your lines decades ago, and you know them all by heart. You can say it all with your eyes closed.

You are, of course, atrocious.

For all your dramatics, you were never much of an actor. The only reason this Exarch act worked as long as it did was because you had a costume and a role to play. G’raha Tia, meanwhile, is wholly incapable of masking even a single emotion. How had Krile described it? Ah, yes — that you’re a stubborn fool who cannot help but believe wholeheartedly in every word that passes your lips.

(Gods above, do you miss Krile. You’re grateful she isn’t here to see you like this.)

Well, no matter. You’ve enlisted the help of someone who _can_ manage a lie. You simply need let him fill in the—

Or Urianger could simply confess to the ruse then and there. So much having a partner in crime.

It matters not. The thief has his prize, and all that remains is to make good your escape. You have not once looked away from the Warrior of Light, but you allow yourself to meet their gaze at last, to see the anguish therein—

“ _G’raha Tia!_ ”

They _remember_ you.

You know, then, that you’re doing the right thing. Even if they should come to despise you for what you’ve done — even if the memory of you is nothing but the sear of aether against their tongue — you _will_ save them. At long last, you will fulfill your dearest wish.

Your eyes brim over with tears as you begin to release the summoning—

Then the shot rings out, and you know nothing but agony and silence.

———

You wake up.

You weren’t supposed to do that.

You blink. Blink again. You try to pinch yourself, but you can’t reach. You’re... tied up.

Gods above, you’re still a screw-up. You didn’t think you could muck up _dying_ , but there’s a first time for everything.

It’s not until you see the Ascian that you realize this goes far, far beyond your own failures.

———

Emet-Selch is fascinated by you.

You know this because he tells you, repeatedly and emphatically. He does not torture you as such, but he is not gentle with his questioning. You expect this will change soon. You are well-conditioned to silence.

And for all that Emet-Selch is patient beyond even your reckoning, you doubt he will waste time on you.

You are not worried.

———

The Warrior of Light is alive.

Despite everything, you’re relieved by that fact. You shouldn’t be — you _should_ be concerning yourself with how best to enact your plan and save the world.

Instead, you can think of little but how the Warrior of Light is going to save you, just like the stories.

You really are hopeless.

———

Hades is vanquished, and the Warrior of Light is still alive.

You feel a bit foolish for ever doubting otherwise. You helped, yes, but it was still _their_ doing. _Their_ victory. Eightfold, as it were.

You realize that the Warrior of Light is staring at you.

You shift, uncomfortably. You feel strangely bare without your hood, though you know it bears no purpose now. You, for all your faults, are G’raha Tia, and you can no longer pretend otherwise.

You start to mumble an apology, as if mere words could convey the scope of your deceit. Of your brilliant, flawed, hopeless plan to save the Warrior of Light.

The Warrior of Light merely smiles at you.

“’Tis good to see you awake, G’raha Tia.”

And as they pull you close for the embrace you’ve longed for since the doors shut behind you, you can do little but weep.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on twitter at [larissacreates](https://twitter.com/larissacreates) (writing and projects) and [farfromdaylight](https://twitter.com/farfromdaylight) (general ff14 yelling, screencaps, rts, etc).


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